


Acts of Penance

by androgenius



Category: The Arcana (Visual Novel)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Cohabitation, F/M, First Time, Fluff, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-23
Updated: 2018-10-23
Packaged: 2019-08-06 14:43:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16389650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/androgenius/pseuds/androgenius
Summary: After an unfortunate encounter with a goat in the forest, a reluctant Muriel takes you in. Unfortunately for Muriel, love can grow in the most unlikely of places.





	Acts of Penance

**Author's Note:**

> This has spoilers, obviously. They're subtle-ish, but they're there.

The first time Muriel touches you, it's out of reluctant necessity.

When he found you in the woods after your unfortunate run-in with Lucio's ghostly form, he'd considered leaving you there. But then the guilt of what Asra would say set in, and he lifted you up into his arms and carried you back to his shack.

With no external wounds visible to the naked eye-- and without the removal of clothes, for that matter-- he sets you up in his bed and calls it a day.

At least that way, if something happens to you and Asra complains, he can't say that he didn't at least try.

But you don't die. Instead, you take a good twenty-seven hours to sleep off your concussion and wake up half-starved.

He decides not to look too closely at the fact that he feels any measure of relief when you do open your eyes.

 

&

 

The second time Muriel touches you, it's an accident.

You're... _annoying_. You try to make conversation, disrupt his otherwise peaceful, silent time with Inanna, and remark on the quality of the food he serves.

(He knows it's not good. It's not Asra's cooking by any stretch of the imagination. _Still_. You're perhaps the last person in the world that he wants to hear this from-- barring, perhaps, Lucio, who would never so much as deserve to taste his slop in the first place.)

He has to wonder why he's bothering to put up with you. Why he's bothering to feed you at all, and why he has yet to kick you out, swiftly and soundly.

You're _fine_. A bit concussed and roughed up, maybe, from you encounter with Lucio's ghostly, goatly form, but otherwise completely fine. You could just leave.

Instead, you're here. Asking him how he can eat any of this on a daily basis.

Which is precisely how he makes the mistake of telling you to just do it yourself if you're so damn sure that you can do it better.

Because you do.

 _So_ quickly, in fact, that he's starting to realize that this had been your plan all along-- annoy him into letting you cook something halfway decent for him.

If he weren't as hungry as he is for something closer to Asra's fare, he would be more annoyed by it, but as it is, he just grumbles his reluctant assent.

Until you start looking for spices, of all things.

"Don't have any," he says simply, not bothering with any excuses regarding his lifestyle. It's never been necessary before.

"You don't even have _salt_?"

"Mmm." He did _not_ sign up for this. "Asra might've left something around."

You're starting to look through the shelves beside his hearth, and he doesn't care for that shit at all, stepping up behind you to reach up onto the top shelf. "Too high for you to reach," he says-- uncertain why he bothers-- and hands you the bowl of salt.

When you take the bowl, your fingers brush up against his, and no amount of effort in the evening that follows can seem to wipe the blush off his features.

 

&

 

The third time Muriel touches you, it's out of kindness, unexpected by him as much as it is for you, if not more so.

You know of Asra's mushroom dish-- of course you do. And since your persistence paid off, Muriel has been more lenient about letting someone other than him and Asra touch his hearth to prepare food.

So you've been cooking, all of it almost achingly delicious when compared to the _nutrition-only-based_ fare he's been providing himself with until now. And, once he's offered full permission to go ahead and keep making your food-- to feed yourself, if not both of you-- for some bizarre reason, one of the first questions out of your mouth is if he has any requests.

It takes you some doing, but after being annoyingly worn down for entirely too long, you finally weasel the mushroom dish out of him.

"You're out of mushrooms," you inform him-- as though he isn't already aware-- looking through his shelves as he grunts.

"Don't really try to make it for myself." The muttered admission is the only thing he's willing to offer you, shrugging as you get up off your knees and brush your front off.

"Well then, I'll be back."

He debates it for a good while, silently watching as you pull your robe on before finally offering a non-committal, self-chiding grunt and holding a small satchel out to you.

"In that case, you should take this along."

"Why?"

"So you can find this place again."

Even after you leave (though not without a litany of follow-up questions, all of which he elected to ignore), he still doesn't understand why the thought of you return doesn't bother him, or why the itch in his chest at the thought of you _not_ returning is there at all.

But then mushroom-picking takes an hour. Then two. When the rain starts coming down in sheets with no sign of stopping, he starts to worry in earnest.

He's headed out to look for you before he realizes his feet are moving.

Unexpectedly, however, you emerge mere moments later-- soaked to the core and shivering as you offer him an apologetic smile.

"S-sorry." Your teeth are chattering, and he squashes the part of him that thinks his arms would make for a warm place-- even in spite of the rain drumming rhythmically down onto his back and arms. "I got a bit lost. I know you g-gave me that thing to help me find my way home, but all it did was make me... think of you."

The flush that crosses his face is more noticeable to him than the way your words seem to strike him like a gut punch, and he's quick to turn around to hold the door open for you. "Go on, then."

You're still shivering even after you've sat yourself in front of the hearth, the mushrooms in the basket still resting in the crook of your arm just as wet as you still seem to be.

"Th-thanks," you tell him, and he has no idea what you're thanking him for in the first place.

"Mm." He's about to reach for one of his furs to offer you when you shake your head.

"... I need to get out of my wet clothes first," you explain, and his flush seems to spread over the rest of his face. "Can you turn around?"

He turns around. As if you even had to ask him. He's a gentleman, after all, even if now all he can really think about or focus on is the thought of you naked.

First, the sound of your shoes coming off. The movement of fabric. The undoing of the clasp of your robe.

Then, a lot of nothing.

"... done?"

"Just about," you tell him.

When he turns around, he assumes you to be fully dressed. Missing a cloak or shoes or a good fur, maybe. Not... the bare silhouette of the feminine form up against the backdrop of his hearth before you wrap the fur around yourself.

What was formerly a mere flush has turned into a raging torrent spreading not only up to his ears, over his face and to the back of his neck, but lower.

 _Lower_.

"You can turn around now," you tell him, and that only seems to make it worse.

"Don't you have any clothes?" he grunts out, willing his erection to go away. It's ineffective. He's never been like Asra, effortlessly sensual around the opposite sex... and the same sex. _Or_ his doctor friend, for that matter, bumbling and awkward and terribly annoying and yet still somehow magnetic in his effect for all those around him too stupid to realize that he's an utter disaster.

Not that he's _not_ a disaster. He just also lacks all the bumbling charm that somehow seems to accompany the doctor. Or the effortless charm that Asra exudes.

He's never experienced the touch of a woman. And yet the thought of it alone...

"... no," you say, and he blinks. That's annoying. Alongside thinking of Asra and the doctor's haphazardly cobbled together 'relationship' it seems almost enough to sufficiently kill his erection.

So he moves without thinking, pulling something from one of his shelves-- a small bundle, tied together and tucked away long ago with the hope of being forgotten.

The fabric containing the rest of his things is just as familiar as the rest of it is, the orange detailing at the edges of a wash of brown making his stomach churn at the memories contained within, and he sighs as he unfurls the coarse string holding it together.

Inside, he finds old, worn, muslin bandages-- once shoes, in a way, and a way to stay warm on the coldest days in Vesuvia and on the beach. They're falling apart now, not that he remembers it ever looking any different. Two pairs of torn linen pants, one too thin and one too short-- even before the edges started to fray beyond all that is acceptable. And... finally, the thing he's been looking for, an old, tattered shirt... almost a dress on him, back then. Certainly long enough.

His hand juts out toward you even as his gaze remains trained on the fire before him.

"What is this?" Thankfully your-- albeit, very reasonable-- question is accompanied by you taking it off his hand, or he may have felt too ashamed of trying to give you something so old and worn and rescinded the offer without comment.

"Clothes," is all he says, finally deciding-- against his own better judgement-- to also hand over the blanket he used to wear as a makeshift cape, taking a moment to disentangle it before also thrusting it in your general direction. "Here."

You don’t question this article of... well, _clothing_ , in a way... and for that he's grateful, glancing briefly back at you before realizing that that is a _risky_ thing to do.

"... dressed?"

"Yeah," you say, your voice surprisingly soft as he spares you another glance, finally content to see you looking decent again. Still definitely on the damp and cold side, but... better. "It... smells like you," you whisper, and Muriel tries not to think about the implications.

When he doesn't say anything, you keep talking. "I'm sorry about all this. I didn't even get to make dinner."

"'s fine," he says, grabbing a fur off his back and laying it out over your shoulders to pull around yourself, his fingers just barely tickling your still-exposed skin as he hurriedly pulls away. "If you tell me how to make it, I can do it."

He thinks about that bit of shoulder for the rest of the night, not a second of which is spent asleep.  

 

&

 

The fourth time Muriel touches you, it's entirely intentional.

In spite of being himself a rather large man, Muriel's house is just not all that big to begin with, and the occasional run-in is more than bound to happen as they walk around the hut, especially at night when the occasional trip outside is necessary.

Not that Muriel is willing to let it.

Instead, his arms shoot out to steady you by your arms, the surprise of it-- and the motion of being displaced as he rotates the two of you-- causing you to squeak out a _sorry_.

"It's fine," he grumbles, and is grateful for the surrounding darkness of the night in hiding his reddened features.

 

&

 

The fifth time Muriel touches you, everything changes.

You didn't change back into your own clothes after the night that yours ended up drenched, and you're starting to look more and more like you're part of his hut. As though you're a permanent resident that belongs there.

The thought is a welcome one, as much as Muriel hates that.

That he wants you to belong there. That the constancy of your presence has brought him actual, tangible joy.

And not just him, either-- Inanna, too. She _loves_ you. The sight of Inanna with her head in your lap, allowing you to pet her...

He doesn't want to think about those implications, either-- even as there's a good pile of them starting to form in the back of his mind.

 _Things to look at more closely, someday_.

It's another sleepless one, the night it happens. He's twisting and turning on the floor-- too close to the bed where you're sleeping and yet too far away-- when he spares a glance over at it only to find it empty.

(When did you get out of bed? And so soundlessly, too, that he missed it. Did he fall asleep for a spell, after all? The thought seems unlikely.)

He's up before he can think better of it, wanting to assume a trip outside for utilitarian purposes instead of anything more... concerning. More cause for panic.

(Something else, perhaps, to file away for another time.)

He opens the door, taking a step only to almost collide with you. Your breath catches as the candle in your hands, the flame formerly guarded by your cupped hand, is extinguished by your breath.

Darkness envelops you, and even so, he can still see the shiver that passes through you from the chill of the forest air outside.

"Did you... need to..."

It barely even constitutes a question, the sound hardly even words. It's just... breath. As though you’re terrified of saying anything loudly enough to shatter this moment between the two of you, whatever it is.

"I was worried." It's more than he's admitted in what feels like years. Even to Asra. You don't say anything, though, and he's quick to tack on another, albeit quiet, explanation. "You weren't in bed."

"... I had a lot on my mind."

He doesn't say anything this time, silence reigning supreme between you as another gust of wind makes you shiver. He's about to suggest that you go back inside when you grasp the chain attached to his collar. Under normal circumstances, that action-- anyone touching him at all, but his collar in particular-- would set off alarm bells in his head. But... it's different this time as you lean up on the tips of your toes and pull him down to kiss him, soft, quiet.

He doesn't pull away. Instead, he lets you guide him to part his lips against yours.

And when you do pull away, he misses you the second your touch escapes his breath.

"Is this... okay?"

"Yes," he tells you, the words oddly effortless as he lifts you up in his arms all over again.

He lays you down on the bed and kisses you, modeling the softness of the touch you'd shown him mere moments before-- until you run your fingers into his hair and pull him closer, your tongue running between his lips amidst sighs from both of you.

He's never known the touch of a woman, but if it's always like this, Muriel thinks he understands, for the first time in a long time.

That he can't imagine a world without the touch of you in his life any longer. That the idea alone is unthinkable.

"You're still cold," he whispers when you do finally pull away from the kiss, and you offer him a small smile.

"I'm fine."

"I'm warm," he offers simply, and pulls his arms around you.

And as glad as he is to be able to do this for you, he knows all too well that his intentions were less than honest.

He knew it would happen sooner rather than later. That the panic would settle in his gut. He just didn't expect it to happen this soon-- not when he desperately wanted to keep kissing you. It could have easily gone further. You both knew as much, after all. _It could have_. But here he is, holding you, sliding into his position as the big spoon as though he was simply made to hold you.

He likes that idea, that he wasn't made to be the Scourge of the South, gladiatorial champion.

That, instead, he was meant simply to hold you.

But the panic is still there. Muriel is looking in a mirror, the reflection angrily showcasing something he longed to forget.

The wish to be forgotten by you, no matter the pain. For your own good.

No matter the pain.

After you fall asleep, he gets up just long enough to remove the small satchel of myrrh from your pocket, and resolves to tell you to go shopping for those spices you've been meaning to buy for days now.

 

&

 

The sixth time Muriel touches you, he thinks it will be the last.

His hand ends up on your shoulder as you steal another kiss from his cheek, your cloak already on before you slip outside to go into town.

(You asked if he didn't want to come along. The fact that he did want to, really, makes lying all the harder.

It tastes wrong on his tongue, and feels impossible to swallow after it leaves his mouth.)

It's for your own good. Even as urging you out the door feels like he's tearing his own heart in two.

(And, just like that, he knows how Asra feels.)

 

&

 

It takes less than 24 hours before Asra shows up at his doorstep.

He's furious, though it doesn't show on his face. Muriel supposes he's not surprised.

Instead, he makes them both a cup of tea, sits down, and scratches Inanna's head as he levels him with a stare. Disapproving. Not upset, but _disappointed_.

And so, so impossibly tired.

"What were you thinking?"

"Mm."

"She's beside herself. Or-- she was, after she remembered what she had forgotten. Why she kept randomly and unexpectedly bursting into tears without knowing why she was so upset."

"I didn't want to hurt her."

"She's--" Asra takes in a deep breath. "She's in love with you. There's no forgetting that."

"Is she all right?"

"She's still upset."

"She'll get better." _She'll get over me_ , is what he wants to say. _It'll be better for her in the end_.

"No, she won't. And she shouldn't have to, either." Asra looks as tired as Muriel feels, which is a feat. "You look miserable."

"Mm."

"She doesn't deserve this. You don't deserve this. _Inanna_ doesn't deserve this. Stop punishing yourself and trying to protect her. Is it really so wrong to wish you could be happy, too?"

He wants to say yes. It feels wrong. It goes against everything he's ever thought of himself, and everything Asra has ever tried to condition him against.

Finally, with nothing but silence to answer, Asra sighs. "Muriel..."

For a moment, Muriel thinks he'll leave it at that, the chiding tone convincing enough in its own right. But he continues. "Do you feel the same way?"

That's the question, isn't it. Except that it isn't. Of course he is. Of course he's in love with you. You fit into the grooves, the corners, the darkest parts of his hut as though you were always meant to be there. You make him feel as though his lonely contentment was merely settling for second-best. That true happiness could be found in the warmth of the right person in his arms.

"Mm."

"Just... come get her, please. She's miserable. I know you thought this was the right thing to do for her sake, but it wasn't."

Asra's words twist in his gut like a knife-- all the harder because of how terribly he knows he deserves them.

Without you, even your leftover cooking seems to lack any taste at all.

And he's not wrong about Inanna, either. Her soft whines at the door from the moment you left him would have been disheartening enough on their own. But then she laid her head in his lap in the hopes of providing some form of comfort, and he knew he was truly hopeless.

Asra leaves while it's still dark out, and by the time dawn breaks, Muriel can't seem to sit still any longer.

 

&

 

The seventh time Muriel touches you, it's an act of penance.

His steps only carry him as far as the mushroom grove before he catches sight of the daybreak's early light bathing your kneeling form. Whatever he expected, Muriel knows it wasn't this, finding you here with a basket of mushrooms in your lap and tears in your eyes.

"Asra said to wait for you, b-but I wanted to see you so badly-- and then I didn't want to show up empty-handed, but I just c-couldn't--"

It breaks his heart that he's the reason that your voice is cracking like this in the first place, a soft sigh of reprimand meant for himself leaving him before he can stop it.

"Come on," he says. "Let’s go home."

You're far too precious to belong in his arms. He knows that. Knows how fragile and small you are compared to his hulking, broad shoulders. It terrifies him utterly. But-- perhaps it can simply be an excuse to hold you, to protect you from the ills and evils of the world.

This time, he's the one that takes your hand, guiding you up onto shaky legs. He drapes the weave of the basket over his arm and lifts you up effortlessly, as though you were naught but a feather in weight.

The walk back to his hut is slow and quiet, not that he's in any real hurry, the pounding belying his fear and anxiety over what could happen once you both get there.

Will you hate him for what he did? Or will you offer him forgiveness and love he knows he doesn't deserve? Pull him into a world entirely unlike the one he's known and made his home all his life?

A part of him wishes you would simply hate him. It would be easier. More painful, but infinitely less terrifying.

Less full of glorious, frightening potential.

"I love you, Muriel." He's steps away from the door when you speak up again for the first time in a while, his steps halted dead in their tracks as he exhales, soft. You'll forgive him.

The future looks as promising as it does daunting.

"I love you, too," he tells you, his voice as soft as it is weary. And as tired as his words sound, it's the first time since your reunion that he's seen you smile.

By the time he lays you down on his bed, he can feel his heart in his throat.

"I don't want to hurt you." He's done enough of that by now, he thinks.

"Just let me stay," you whisper, your hands coming up to run over his collar. The sudden touch makes him flinch, Muriel fighting the urge to swat your hands away from his bondage.

"Why?" you ask, Muriel just shaking his head. "Why would they treat you like some kind of animal?"

"Because I am."

The pain cascades over your face like a waterfall, and he wonders if this is the first time someone has ever thought to cry for him and his life. The things he's lived through and endured.

Not that he's looking for pity. He's always been used to his lot in life, even if he's never liked the consequences that his sheer size brought along with it.

"You're _not_."

Reaching up, he wipes the tears from under your eyes, his touch gentler than he thought possible.

"You're not," you say again, and he shakes his head once more, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead.

"Not anymore."

"I could find a way to take it off, you know." It's a strange thought, the possibility of being free. Uncomfortable and stifling in ways only confinement ought to feel. But-- he also knows that now is not the time.

"I'm not worried about that at the moment," he tells you, and leans in to kiss you, instead.

It lingers longer, this time. You taste even sweeter than the first time, when it was you that kissed him, and he wonders if it's possible that things will just keep getting better from here. It seems an impossibility, but-- then again, you're in his arms right now.

You pull him down close, Muriel supporting his weight on his arms so as not to crush you, somehow. But-- then you want him to touch you, your hand easing its way down his arm, and he shifts his weight only for his hand to be guided to your breast.

Your... breast.

It's only through your clothes, but his breath catches in his throat all the same as he takes in the feel of it, red flooding his features as he stares down at you in utter astonishment.

As though you've offered him the world at his fingertips.

To have, hold, and caress.

"Touch me," you whisper, easing the material of your front aside far enough to expose your bare breast to his hand, allowing him to cup the soft flesh.

He stalls, however, and blinks up at you.

"You want this?"

And despite everything, he's still amazed when you nod up at him, leaning up to steal another kiss from his lips. "Yeah. Yeah, I do. And you can kiss them, too, if you want. You can do... _anything_."

"I won't hurt you," he reiterates, leaning down to slowly, gently capture your nipple between his lips, his hand moving to worship at your other breast through your clothes-- until you take pity on him and push that bit of fabric aside, too.

The motion, however, makes him pause, and he looks up at you, eyes filled with nothing but hope. "Can I see you?"

"Only if I can see you, too," you tell him, shimmying out from under his body to pull your clothes off properly. "Go on, then-- turn around. It should be a surprise."

He's all red by now, he thinks, his every last appendage seeming to tingle with eager anticipation from the thought of your nudity alone. Even his hands are bordering on clammy as he feels himself struggling with his buckles and belts, everything that came so naturally to him mere moments before. By the time he's just about naked-- save for his collar and the fur he's still hiding his shame behind, that is-- he thinks he's begun to sweat with nerves.

"Turn around?" you ask, your voice lilting and melodic and infinitely beautiful, the sound soothing enough to coax him to turn to look at you.

 _You_ , who are so, so perfect. _You_ , the most beautiful thing he's ever seen. _You_ , utterly breathtaking in all your bare splendor.

"You're... mmm." It's as far as he gets, the fur doing little to cover up his true feelings, how stunning he finds you, and Muriel clears his throat. "Pretty," he finally manages, the flush coloring his cheeks deepening further, somehow.

"You're supposed to take that off, too, you know," you tell him, sitting up on your knees to grasp the fur at its edge. "May I?"

He nods, just barely. And then a second time, when he finds you hesitating, his assent more certain this time.

Slowly, the fur slips away to reveal all of him to you, your gaze remaining trained on his as you shimmy closer to the edge of the bed.

Your hand is first in its soft caress of his balls, making its way up to the shaft to wrap around it, shockingly gentle, already infinitely better than anything he's ever managed to do for himself. His hands have always been rough and calloused, hardly well-suited for anything but causing pain. He has no idea how he's supposed to offer you a touch as soft and loving as the one you're providing him here, now, but-- by god, he'll try.

And that's when you wrap your lips about the head of his cock, the sharp, staggered gasp escaping his throat a dead giveaway of how little he anticipated it-- or the way your tongue curls around the ridge at the base of his head.

The way your mouth is nothing but perfectly warm and wet, a veritable sanctuary for his length is... astonishing to him. He's sizable in ways he didn't realize until now, though it's obvious you're doing your best to pay attention to his head, if nothing else, your mouth seeming to stretch uncomfortably around his girth as he runs his fingers through your hair. His breathing has picked up, and noticeably so, but all he can focus on is your eyes.

Letting his thumb stroke your cheek, he lets out a shuddered exhale, feeling himself approaching a peak he used to considerate infinitely shameful. _Used to_. It's... _different,_ with you here.

It strikes him, in that moment, that this could be _bad_. If he comes like this, without warning-- he knows he comes a lot, in volume alone. There's no way you could be prepared.

So he lets out another staggered breath and grasps hold of either side of your face to carefully ease you off his length. "No," he rasps. "It would be too much." Too much-- and he doesn't want your jaw to get sore, either.

This part, he knows, though. The bits right before the coupling. He's seen dogs, after all, and wolves, too. So he nods to the bed, his hands reluctantly letting go of your head. "Can you... get on all fours?"

You look confused at first, but comply nevertheless, Muriel following you onto the bed to settle in behind you, his cock achingly hard by the time he spreads your pussy lips open and _licks_.

And licks and licks and licks.

It's convenient that he has a long tongue, its shape and length aiding beautifully in eliciting noise after sweet noise from you, squeals and moans making his cock throb as he laps up everything your folds have to offer him. You're delicious-- more delicious, even, than the food you've made him. More than a ripe peach on a warm summer's day, Asra's mushroom dish, black mead, and smoked eel.

You taste faintly of sweat and desire, of longing and love, and he thinks he may need to linger a little longer between your legs than strictly necessary for the purposes of coupling alone.

At least, that is, until something happens.

Your thighs and ass tense under his hands, the muscles taut and nevertheless quivering as your mewls start to turn more desperate and frenzied. He's heard noises like this before, from animals during mating-- but never _before_. But you sound almost like you're experiencing either the peak of agony or ecstasy.

He desperately hopes it is not the former. But you're not moving away from him, either-- instead, your hips seem eager to find his tongue, instead, thrusting against it in apparent desperation for _more_.

When you do scream, Muriel draws back, his eyes wide as your pussy clenches around nothing, your fingers twisted into the sheets beneath you. Even with your face pushed down into one of the furs you're still breathing hard, delirious happiness written over your features.

Still, he has to at least _check_.

"... did I hurt you?"

"I-- no--" You shake your head, your body still trembling as he blinks at you. "It felt really, really good, Muriel."

Filing away the thought that he'll have to do that again, he smiles, softly, and shifts up onto his knees to align his cock at your entrance, his fingers curling around your hips as he starts to press into you.

Only for you to stiffen.

"M-Muriel?"

A part of him wilts inside at the thought of the implications behind your words. Do you not want to sleep with him? He thought that's what you were doing. Did he presume too much?

"... you don't want this," he concludes, and you turn around to look at him, your eyes wide as you stare up at him.

"What are you talking about? Of course I want this. I just want to be able to look at you when we... do."

Now _that_ , that is new. Dogs and wolves don't look at each other when mating. What animal does? He can't think of even one.

"How?"

You laugh, soft and happy, and his chest seems to lighten somewhat at the sound. "Lie back?"

He trusts you. And, just as you followed his instructions, so does he follow yours now, leaning back onto his bed for the first time since you came to him. Watches as you straddle him, reaching out to guide his hand to your chest.

He _did_ miss touching those, didn't he?

"Have you done this before?" He doesn't mean for his voice to come out as raspy as it does this time, but he can't help it. The thought itches at the back of his neck... until you smile and shake your head.

"No, but I've done a _lot_ of reading."

You align his cock at your entrance... and start to slide down.

You don't get far, granted. The look of pain that crosses your features speaks for itself, and suddenly Muriel hates his cock, hates it for what it's doing to you as his hands find your hips, ready to pull you back off to simply hold you for the rest of the night. But you shake your head, evidently insistent upon persevering.

And then you kiss him, so you might both have a distraction-- for you, an escape from the stretching agony you're left to endure at his girth; for him, a way to avoid the insistence from his body begging him to thrust more deeply into the tight, wet heat of the woman he loves.

Kissing you is wonderful, but right now all he can think about the truth behind that thought. How much he loves you and how close you are like this, truly. How he thought to deny this to both of you, thinking it for the best.

How happy you look, even as you fight to adjust to his considerable size (a curse, he decides, right then and there).

How happy he is, more than he's ever been, even in the midst of his panic over your well-being.

Your lips are replaced by a lone finger meant to quiet him. "I love you," you tell him again when you pull away, Muriel reaching up to wipe the tears threatening to spill out from the corners of your eyes, his thumb running over your cheekbone as you beam down at him. "It's getting better, so you don't have to worry."

What he wants, more than anything, is to apologize. But you have him shushed, quietly obedient and at your behest, and he decides to comply with your wishes, to not make you sad with his own panic over your welfare.

So he nods against your finger and lets you steal another kiss from his lips, reaching for his hand to guide a thumb to the base of your body, just a hair's breadth away from where your bodies meet.

You've sunken all the way down his length by now, he realizes faintly, marveling at your strength in breaking down all of his walls, all of his resistance. Where his mind sought to push you away, where his body wished to make coupling nigh impossible-- you've always forged onward regardless. Where he felt impossible to love, you never once abandoned hope the way he had.

You're an angel.

His rough and calloused thumb brushes gently over the spot you guided him to, and you quiver in his hands, the shudder making him smile as he watches your face, just as you wanted him to. By now, the thought of not being able to see you in the midst of all of this is unthinkable, and he's grateful for your assistance as much as he is for the wealth of reading you must have done to accrue this amount of knowledge on the topic, making a mental note to acquire said reading... at some point.

"M-Muriel," you breathe, and he wonders what he did in life to be offered such a gift. The sound of your ecstasy alone is undeserved, he knows, and yet he can't help but want all of you. Every breath and sigh and whimper that ever comes to slip free from your lungs.

Everything you wish him to offer you is yours, without question or thought.

You help his thumb move in just the right ways to make you scream again, the sound as impossibly sweet as it was the first time he heard it-- and then you're suddenly _moving_ atop his cock, a garbled groan escaping Muriel as his fingers tighten around your hips.

He can help with this, too-- if you're ready to move, he wants to be there to aid the endeavor, wants to offer you even an ounce of the joy you've given him.

But then you whimper out the soft wish for him to _roll over--_ and he doesn't have to be told _that_ twice, turning until he's pushing into you from above, his hands back to supporting his weight on one side of you as the other cups your cheek.

The chain drags over your chest, for a moment, and as he pushes it aside, Muriel realizes that it just might have to go, after all. That there's no room for the forced bondage of his former imprisonment in your relationship any longer.

It's his turn to steal a kiss from you, and as he feels himself nearing his own crescendo, it's your smile that tips him over the edge, the way your arms wrap around him to pull him close.

"I love you, Muriel," you tell him yet again, just in time for him to lose himself in your arms.

Reality settles back in following the bliss of your union. He's still inside of you, but you're both on your sides, wrapped up in each other and happy.

You're safe. He's big enough to be the big spoon in any scenario, and your repeated stolen kisses upon different parts of his face are making even him smile. Behind you, Inanna settles into bed, content to pretend that there's enough room on the small fur-covered excuse of a stone slab. Her eyes seem to bore into his with the challenge. That you'll need a bigger bed now. Not just for him and her and you all together, but a growing family-- someday, maybe. Something to fill in the space between you.

For now, though, he's happy-- just as things are. Content, and perfectly so.

(And suddenly, he knows why Asra thought it worth bringing you back.)


End file.
